Untitled Fiction Unfinished
by Slavedriver
Summary: Around 55 percent done. Got the story worked out, just haven't got round to writing it down. Or giving a title.


"Fire!" The word seemed to bark itself unheeded from the sergeant's lips, an automatic conditioning from long years of training. Almost immediately the air was filled with the concentrated sound of a score of lasguns firing with practised precision. Sergeant DeLaroche shielded his eyes from the harsh desert sun as he viewed the battlefield, and was met with the sight of hundreds upon hundreds of Orks, tearing across the baking sands on foot, on spluttering bikes that kicked up huge, noxious clouds of greasy black smoke, or on open topped buggies that had bodies clinging to it that put him strangely in mind of a marshspider carrying its young. Again he called out the order to fire, and again the volley smashed into the front of the advancing horde, felling the huge green brutes to be trampled underfoot. As the sound of the roaring reached his ears, an icy finger of doubt stroked up his spine and he knew that if they were to survive this then it would be a miracle worthy of the Emperor himself. Already the sand near his squad was beginning to patter with the impact of stray Ork bullets. DeLaroche looked to either side of him, and a sudden fear set in as he saw that they were alone in this vast desert, surrounded by this murderous brutes with no chance of escaping alive. But wasn't it the greatest honour, to give your life for the continuing glory of the Imperium?

He sensed his men were ready and expectant for his orders, but as he gave the command to commence shooting once more, the words stuck in his dry throat and came out as little more than a clotted croak. Desperately trying to swallow, the sergeant could see the trepidation on the faces of his men, unsure of what to do, not knowing what their ultimate orders were. Without warning a sharp series of cracks pealed out from one of the group of bikers who had covered a good hundred spans in a matter of seconds, and Private Piette was thrown backwards in a cloud of blood, ragged holes punched through his chest and shoulder. Several of his men struggled backwards from the corpse, two of them actually scrambling to their feet and running directly away from the Orks. A guardsman by the name of Hudson levelled his lasgun and snapped off a couple of rounds, before a trail of bloodied impacts stictched their way up his thigh and into his belly. Suddenly the orks were upon them, the crude bikes acting as shock troops and ploughing into the squad, lashing out with pipes and blazing their huge cannons into anything that moved. DeLaroche saw men fall under the onslaught, blown apart by massive caliber rounds or staved in by the hit and run swipes. A gutteral howl made him jerk his head to the right, where he saw an enormous Ork, far bigger then the rest, leap off his truck and pace towards him. Frozen by terror, DeLaroche could only stare as the obvious leader of the warband increased its speed, whirling a buzzing chainaxe above its head and screaming as it bore down on him. The sergeant raised his arms in a futile attempt to block the inevitable blow, but the axe tore down into him.

With a gasp, DeLaroche jerked awake, conciousness flooding into his body and filling his numb limbs. He groaned at the sour taste in his mouth and wiped his palm over his forehead, swabbing away the dampness there. In the gloom of the sleeping quarters a dark shape could be made out through the sergeant's half focussed vision, moving nearer and into a shaft of light from one of the security beams outside to reveal the harsh features of Sergeant Brand. "Another nightmare, kid... you sure have a problem with them recently." Brand shared DeLaroche's bunk and had been disturbed by the younger man's troubled sleep. "What's that, the fifth in a row?" DeLaroche drew a thumb and forefinger over his eyes to clear the sleep, and took a deep breath. He was feeling better, his heart had stopped pounding as if it was about to leap from his chest, but his mind still raced with images of the dream and made him wince at their memory. "I don't know what's wrong... I guess that it must be just worrying about moving out tomorrow. I-" Brand cut him off with a soft snort of derision. "Listen, kid - if you worried this much about a routine operation like this, then when we really have to go and do some fighting you'd be dead of fright. I know that's not the reason as much as you do. Listen," Brand leaned conspiratorially over to DeLaroche and spoke in lowered tones, making his already husky voice almost inaudible. "I've heard things said about you, maybe they're true, maybe not. Thing is, I know you're where you are now because you came top of the class in the firing range and tactical manoeuvres. You're a born officer, son - except you're not an officer because... well, because people say you don't have guts." Brand shook his head placatingly as DeLaroche let out a short breath of indignation. "I didn't mean like that! I just meant that... well, the term I heard used was that you don't 'Convey the exemplary image of the Imperium expected from it's chosen'. What that means in a nutshell is that you don't seem willing to die for the Emperor, and so the top brass have you noted down as... hesitant." DeLaroche let Brand's words sink in before replying. "I don't want them to die. They're my men, and I can't let them die just because 'honour' tells me that I should have to. I look at them every day and do you know what I see? I see men, just like me - chosen to fight the good fight, men of dignity. But to all others it seems they're nothing more than dog meat to be ground down to waste resources." The silence seemed to be thick in the air between the two men, until finally Brand spoke in a soft voice. "Kid, do you know why we fight? We don't fight so we can enjoy new worlds and better conditions. We don't fight because we get told to. We fight because we _have_ to, because if we don't then there's nothing between the good citizens and a thousand different deaths." The veteran paused for a moment to close his eyes and draw his hand over his scarred and stubbled cheeks. "My family were on Xanthar VI, eighteen years ago. I'm sure you've heard of it?" DeLaroche nodded silently - Xanthar VI was the site of one of the most horrendous massacres in the segment, when a warband of Orks and a squad of renegade Marines had forged an uneasy alliance and systematically scoured the planet of all life, the only survivors being taken away for slaves and playthings. The truce had broken up shortly afterwards, Orks and Marines virtually wiping each other out, but this was no consolation to the citizens who had been on the planet. "I had been drafted into the guard for six months before that, I was still wet behind the ears and eager to go out and liberate worlds in the name of Emperor. Then I got word of the attack, and... well, it hit me hard. But I rode it out and I promised myself that if there was something I could do to stop this happening again then I would do it. _This_ is why we fight, to protect the ones who can't protect themselves, and I know as sure as Holy Terra that I'd give my life if it meant that some others would be safe." Brand's gaze remained locked with DeLaroche's for endless moments, before he eased himself up and stepped back into the gloom. "You could go far, son... I'm too old to make anything above Sergeant but you have real potential - you just need to get some things straight." Sergeant Brand turned from DeLaroche's bunk and was swallowed by darkness.

"Release on my mark. 3 - 2 - 1... Mark." The small squad transport lurched down as it was released from the orbiting cruiser and plummeted into the low orbit of Taskil. A tiny planet hardly bigger than a moon, Taskil was nevertheless a useful monitoring station for the Imperium. Nestled at the very edge of the Ultima Segmentum, it was in the process of being terraformed from a barren, inhospitable moon to a habitable recon station that could relay information on the area without having to rely on the presence of precious psykers and astropaths. Recently it had seemed that all requests for the Gifted to bolster regiments had been turned down due to lack of resources, but rumours abounded that they were all needed elsewhere, for a massive defence force to counter an invasion none of them would know about until too late. Others whispered that dark forces were seeping through even the mental guards of the Holy Emperor and twisting the minds of anyone with even faintly developed psychic powers - although to suggest that He was weakening was blasphemy, and several commissars had executed officers for daring to suggest this reason to their fellows. Either way, the fledgling station on Taskil had value to the Imperium that warranted it's protection, at least until the full atmospheric change had taken place, and a full barracks and forge could be constructed there.

DeLaroche looked around the shadowy interior of the tiny dropship as the gravitational forces kicked in and made full body movement next to impossible. The men under his command had made this kind of journey countless times, on countless worlds - apart from Riven. Fresh faced, he hardly looked old enough to shave, let alone fight, but he had proved himself well in training and had a sharp mind in that youthful head. One day it seemed he would be destined to become a great tactician, if he ever had the chance, but for now he was Infantryman Riven, and had to follow orders like everyone else. A thin keening sound came from DeLaroche's left, and he glanced over to see Nagata slumped back in his harness, eyes rolled back and mouth leaking onto his flak tunic. Riven followed his gaze and a look of panic washed over his face as he took in the twisted visage of his comrade. As Riven moved to try to undo his harness lock, DeLaroche raised a hand to halt him before landing a kick on the shin of Nagata, who spluttered as he woke up and regained an idea of his surroundings. DeLaroche gave a wry smile to Riven - Nagata was noted by his companions for his habit of being able to fall asleep in the most unlikely of places, and if Riven had removed his harness he would have been flattened against the ceiling of the cramped transport. A crackle of static filtered through the voxcomms, followed by the drawl of the transport pilot, Nilsen. "Comin' in under control, people. Aerofoils engaged, we have atmospheric vectors." A sudden lurch signalled the craft's wings slicing into the chill airs of Taskil's stratosphere. Looking either side of his glastech cockpit, Nilsen could see identical carriers cruising away to carry squads to their allotted garrison points. "Looks a little cold fellas, might want to wrap up warm!" A few sparse chuckled punctuated Nilsen's dire attempt at irony, quickly cut off as the soldiers pulled rebreathers over their faces and fastened heavy thermal cloaks around their shoulders. In another few minutes they'd need all the protection they could get from the elements battering at the 'ship. "Ok, 30 seconds, people. Adjusting flight trajectory now, compensating for side winds. Engaging retro thrusters, now all we need is--" Nilsen's commentary trailed off as the ship to his right threw up a series of sparks as if pelted by scores of tiny meteorites. The carrier seemed to stumble in mid-air, wobbling almost onto its side, but regaining balance and carrying on. Suddenly the pilot saw what had caused the sparks, as a hail of blades, needles at least three spans long, came flying out of the crystalline fog below, raking along the side of the wounded carrier. This time the sparks crept along the length of the port side and flayed the casing from the thruster, the flame leaking from myriad holes. As the craft wheeled over, the damaged thruster burst into a cloud of superheated gases before the whole of the 'ship's side came apart in a burst of flame and red hot metal. With an oath to the Emperor, Nilsen dragged the controls hard to port. Equipment burst out of stowed lockers and luggage space to scatter carelessly across the floor of the troop carrier and rattle against the feet of the surprised troopers. DeLaroche grabbed a dangling voxcomm mic and yelled into it anxiously. "Nilsen! What in Throne's name is happening out there?" A gargled message, half muted by feedback and movement replied. "I-I don't know, Sarge... it looks like... no, it can't be... too big... coming right for us... hold on!" The craft bucked around him, and a sound like the front of the ship was being torn apart echoed through the cramped compartment. DeLaroche only had time to see the panic in Riven's wide eyes before the internal lights failed and his men were plunged into total darkness.

The sharp smell of propulsion fumes assaulted DeLaroche's nostrils as he surfaced back to conciousness. The air around him pinched his skin with the cold as the warmth of oblivion flowed off his prone body. A noise to his left made me snap his gaze drunkenly around, to see the face of Nagata looming close. The guardsman's face immediately softened in relief as he saw DeLaroche's eyes focussing – that was a good sign, at least he was showing some sign of activity. DeLaroche opened his mouth to speak, lips peeling apart, breaking a seal of dried blood and sweat.

"What in the name of Throne happened to us? Where are we? How did we end up in this Emperor forsaken hole?" The questions fell out of his mouth as his eyes took in the surroundings. The bright sun was almost set now, staining the sky a dirty pink colour and casting shadows a few spans in each direction. To his left almost all of his men were staring intently at him from around the flickering embers of a crudely constructed fire. Twisting in the dirt he saw the staggering sight of what had once been their 'ship, virtually gutted by flame, pitted along the port side by hundreds upon hundreds of tiny pockmarks, as if it had been under fire from a barrage of small arms fire. The guttering light from the fire barely illuminated the wreckage but the Sergeant could see span-length barbs still embedded in several of the impact sites.


End file.
